Rest

According to Mark Twain, the worst loneliness is not being comfortable with oneself.

I often wonder, sometimes aloud, to my friends, how they can possibly stand being around me for more than two minutes at a time, and why on earth would they possibly want to be my friend? What could they (you, if anybody reads this) possibly see in me? I swear, they must just tolerate me. They're stuck with me.

So, a thought.

Really, I'm projecting these feelings of inadequacy onto my friends. I'm just not comfortable with myself. I don't like myself. Period.

Borrowing from the wisdom of a good friend:
as my long-suffering friends are simply there...willing to sit and simply be with me, very strongly...how much more does our Father desire to just sit with us, to just be there, among us and between us?
And in that being there, loving me silently and persistently, loving me out of my self-hatred, desiring nothing more than to dwell among me, to communicate with me, my spirit to His.

To place my entire ravaged restless heart into His care and keeping. To enter His rest.